Way out West
by Dizzo
Summary: MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR 6.18 FRONTIERLAND  Starts where Frontierland left off ... what if the boys couldn't get back?  Humour/Hurty/Angsty - bit of everything really!
1. Chapter 1

WAY OUT WEST

**Massive spoilers for 6.18 - Frontierland.**

_Written for Brightshadow-Chi who asked me very nicely if I would write a western based story ..._ _so here it is, starting where Frontierland left off_.

disclaimer: I don't own them, I just borrow them occasionally for fun and frolics!

xxxxx

What if Bobby's soul couldn't mend Castiel completely after the angel was attacked ...

What if it was going to take a long time for Castiel to regain his strength ...

What if he couldn't get the boys back ...

What if I stop rambling and just get on with the story ...

xxxxx

Chapter 1

_Sunrise, Wyoming. 1861_

Standing silently beside the smoking embers of the phoenix, the brothers stared at each other. Job done; they had found the colt and ganked the phoenix, gathering it's ashes as necessary, but the twenty four hours allocated to them by Castiel when he had sent them back one hundred and fifty years had ticked down some minutes ago and yet here they were, still standing amidst the dust and horse dung of 1861.

Dean squinted up into the cloudless sky; "c'mon Cas, shake your angel ass, we're all done here."

Sam watched his brother, a look of fear gradually creeping across his face.

"Dean, something's wrong."

Scraping a hand over his forehead, Dean fidgeted nervously as he spoke; "he's a freakin' angel, what the hell could possibly go wrong?" The look on his face, however, suggested that he didn't believe his own reassuring words any more than Sam did.

xxxxx

A pall of silence had settled over Bobby's house as the two occupants nursed their respective hurts. The pallid angel lay on the couch, nursing the stab wound in his stomach, blood still seeping thickly through the bandage that Bobby had applied after he had stumbled, bleeding profusely, through the door.

Bobby sat slumped limply across his desk. Allowing Castiel to touch his soul in order to heal himself had left the older man debilitated to the point that he was barely functioning.

He held his head in his hands, not wanting to hear the news that the angel had just imparted; "whad'ya mean you can't get them back?" he groaned.

"Your soul was not potent enough to fully heal me;" Castiel replied bluntly.

Looking up slowly, Bobby's heavy lidded eyes bored dangerously into the angel's melancholy face; "an' what's the matter with my damn soul?"

Castiel took a deep breath; "I am sorry, it is … um …"

The glare from the older hunter was making the angel squirm; "is … what?" he snarled.

Castiel shrunk into the couch as he responded in a small voice; "… old."

Bobby's glare darkened; "choose your next friggin' words carefully, otherwise this 'old' soul is gonna kick your holy damned ass all the way back to Heaven."

"It no longer has the spirit and energy that I require to heal me fully." Castiel looked down at his bandaged stomach. "I am very sorry."

Bobby tried and failed to stand up; "you mean you've been rootin' around in my damned innards for nothin'?" he roared.

"Not for nothing;" replied Castiel, "your soul has ensured that I will now survive and I will recover, but it will take time. I will heal at an almost human pace."

Shaking his head, Bobby grumbled quietly as he cleared his thoughts; "well, it looks like you an' me are both gonna be outta commission for a while; where does that leave the boys?"

The angel's piercing blue eyes took on a heartbreakingly solemn expression. "I will not be able to retrieve them until I am fully recovered."

"Well how long's it likely to take?" Bobby asked impatiently.

"Days, weeks? I do not know how long it would take a human to recover from a stab wound;" the angel replied with a sigh.

The older hunter's head slumped again.

"We can't leave them there to fend for themselves for that long;" snapped Bobby, not even trying to hide his irritation, "with Dean's smart mouth that boy could drop himself into a whole heap o' trouble in no time at all."

Castiel groaned, wincing as he tried to sit up; "but he does that all the time."

"Yeah, but unlike now, back then you could get yer neck stretched for sayin' the wrong damn thing!"

xxxxx

"Cas!" Dean stomped up and down the main street, waving his arms furiously, "Cas you sonofabitch …" he roared at the sky, "we're freakin' ready; get your freakin' feathery ass down here an' get us back."

Sam watched his agitated brother as he stormed and raged, gesticulating wildly at the sky, reflecting that Dean's love affair with the wild west seemed to have ended rather abruptly.

He placed a hand on his furious brother's shoulder.

"Dean, I think we need to work on the assumption that something's gone wrong." He hesitated for a moment, staring into Dean's penetrating green glare; "we might be stuck here."

"Oh, brilliant deduction Holmes," Dean snapped, rounding on Sam; "what the hell are we supposed to do, then?"

Sam shook his head, doing his best to remain calm as Dean began, by degrees, to implode; "don't know bro'; we'll just have to try to figure something out."

"And how do we do that, Einstein?" Dean aggressively jabbed Sam in the chest, "in case it's escaped your notice, there's no library, no internet, no sonofabitch cellphone signal … do I need to go on?"

Sam shrugged, "we'll just have to talk to folk round here."

Dean was, by now, hyperventilating slightly; "I don't think that would be such a good idea, Sam;" he muttered, glancing around shiftily, "whatever we do, I don't think we can stay in this town. "

Sam looked quizzically at his brother.

"Dude, I've just incinerated a man with a single bullet, and we're getting some very weird looks from the locals;" he took a deep breath which appeared to calm him slightly, and leaned into Sam, lowering his voice.

"These are god-fearing people, they're real twitchy about stuff that they view as witchcraft or black magic."

Now it was Sam's turn to look uneasy; he hadn't noticed it before but there were indeed a number of townsfolk timidly approaching the smoking ash pile and giving the Winchesters the kind of looks reserved for people with two heads.

"We stay here, an' if we're not careful, we'll wake up tomorrow mornin' friggin' murdered in our sleep," Dean snorted without taking his eyes off the milling townsfolk.

Sam blinked, "uh dude, we can't wake up if …"

"Shuddup."

"but … they wouldn't do anything, would they?" Sam whispered, "I mean, you're the sherriff."

"D'y think that matters to them, Sam?" Dean whispered frantically, "how do you think I got the job?"

"Ah!" Sam nodded.

Dean caught the eye of one old timer who was warily eyeing him, and rewarded him with his best shitfaced grin, seemingly unnerving the old man even further.

The brothers began to slowly back away from the encroaching townsfolk who were now actively poking at the ashes and pointing menacingly at them.

"Split?" whispered Sam.

"Split," nodded Dean.

The Winchesters cheerfully tipped their hats to the nervous population of Sunrise, Wyoming.

Then turned and hightailed it out of town.

xxxxx

"Well, I ain't gonna sit here with my thumb up my ass, waiting for weeks until your angel juice is back up an' runnin;" Bobby growled, "I've gotta try and do something for 'em."

He rose from his chair on shaking legs, and leaned heavily on the desk. "Jeez, what the hell d'you do? Feel like my insides have been scrambled."

"I am truly sorry," Castiel tried to sit up again, rubbing the unfamiliar rough fabric of the bandage around his middle through his open shirt; "I will offer any assistance I can give you."

Bobby rolled his eyes at the angel's pitiful attempts to rise; "never mind, ya dying swan; park y'ass an' rest up; need you to get better to get them boys back, 'case I can't find nothin'." Huffing and grumbling, he stumbled slowly toward his study. Castiel was sure he heard the words 'friggin' angels' as he watched the older man shuffle painfully on his way out of the room.

xxxxx

Puffing and panting, the brothers skidded to a halt as they passed the blacksmith's forge, spying two horses tethered outside. A knowing look passed between the two men.

The blacksmith, busy at his forge, didn't see the two hunched figures creep round beside the hitching rail to untie the horses, surreptitiously leading them away.

Nervously glancing behind him for fear of seeing pursuing townsfolk, Sam swung a leg over the back of the larger horse, a massive wall-eyed pinto, and swiftly settled into the saddle. He looked across at Dean, one foot planted in the stirrup, hopping around in increasingly irate circles as the second horse, a skittish appaloosa wheeled around, shying and fretting, dragging Dean along for the ride.

"Keep still ya friggin' brainless haybag ..."

"Uh Dean," Sam offered,

"shuddap," Dean grunted, fighting to still the snorting animal.

"But Dean ..."

"Sam, can it!" Dean tugged on the reins, finally managing to pull the agitated horse into angry submission and heaved himself inelegantly up into the saddle.

"Dean, you should …"

Sam cringed on hearing a startled squawk as the saddle suddenly sunk down to the horses belly heavily decanting it's unsettled rider into a heap on the floor.

"… tighten the girth"

Dean scrambled to his hands and knees as the appaloosa reared and took off, kicking a cloud of tawny dust into Dean's scowling face.

Watching the spectacle from his seat on the giant pinto's back, Sam hesitated.

"Y'ok dude?"

Dean coughed through the swirling dust and stumbled to his feet, brushing off his jeans; " jus' friggin' peachy," he grunted.

Sam reached out a hand, "c'mon Dean, we shouldn't hang around; we don't know who's following us."

Dean looked up at Sam and his shoulders slumped.

"C'mon," Sam encouraged, more urgently this time; "the blacksmith's gonna realise his customers are missing any time."

"Oh, man!" Dean sighed, and put a foot into the stirrup Sam had released to heave himself into the saddle behind his brother.

The horse snorted, tossing it's head at the extra burden which planted itself heavily behind it's rider.

"Hang on;" Sam instructed, waiting momentarily as Dean's arms reluctantly tightened around his waist.

He kicked the horse into a laboured, tottering canter at exactly the same time an outraged yell emanated from within the forge.

Neither brother looked back as Sunrise receded into the dust behind them.

Xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 2

A good couple of hours passed before Castiel opened his eyes, gradually realising he had fallen asleep. Blinking in confusion, he looked around the darkened room, unsure of what to do next.

Eventually, after much deliberation and knowing Bobby was in his study, for want of anything else to do Castiel decided to join him.

He hauled himself to his feet, and gasped at the unfamiliar and spectacularly unpleasant human sensation of pain ripping through his abdomen as his laboured attempts to rise pulled on the wound.

Stooping painfully he cautiously made his way through to Bobby's study finding the older man asleep, slumped over his desk and snoring heartily into the dusty pages of an ancient grimoire.

Castiel leaned heavily on the desk watching the sleeping man; Should he leave him alone to sleep? Should he wake him? He wiped a cuff across his sweat beaded forehead, and thought back to what he had seen the brothers do for each other when one of them was hurt or tired.

Timidly shrugging off his trenchcoat, he gently spread it over Bobby's hunched shoulders, and taking an armful of books, he lowered himself tentatively into a sagging armchair and began to read …

xxxxx

The brothers had been riding across miles of flat, featureless emptiness for about an hour before they both dismounted, concerned that the struggling horse might actually keel over under their combined weight. They walked in silence for a while, either side of the exhausted animal which Dean had taken it upon himself to call Lars.

"I'm surprised no-one's come after us;" Sam broke the silence looking at Dean over the tall black shoulder bobbing along between them.

"Nah," Dean shook his head, "they know I've got 'that' gun with me, if they're gonna come after us they'll do it later on when they think they can catch us off guard without it."

Sam continued, It doesn't look good dude, does it?" He sighed, "black magic, horse stealing; we haven't exactly created a good first impression here."

Dean nodded, ruffling Lars' sweaty mane; "they're probably already printing up the wanted posters."

"According to the map, there's a small town called Possum Creek about eighty miles north of Sunrise;" Sam suggested hopefully, "that might be far enough away to give us a bit of breathing space. I reckon we could do it in two days if we don't overload the hor - Lars."

Dean squinted through the late afternoon sunlight as he scanned the landscape; a wide expanse of sun-bronzed rocky nothingness peppered by banks of shimmering scrubby grasses and a few forlornly shrivelled bushes.

"Great;" grunted Dean, "two days in the ass end of beyond;" he groaned miserably, "I've already got dust in places I don't even wanna friggin' think about."

Sam grimaced, he didn't want to think about them either.

"Have you taken into account the fact we don't have any provisions?" Dean continued with an irritable snort, peering over Lars' shaggy mane; "unless we eat Lars here," he whispered, as if he expected the horse to be outraged by his suggestion.

"Well, according to the map, there's a creek about two miles west running the best part of the distance between Sunrise and Possum Creek, so we should be okay for water," Sam replied, "but food - that's another matter."

Dean scowled, "but I'm already hungry." He rubbed his stomach as a petulant gurgle erupted from it so violently, that Lars shied.

Sam shrugged, "sorry dude, don't know what to suggest."

They trudged in silence for a few more minutes.

"I'm tired too."

"Dean…"

"An' sweaty."

Sam's fingers tightened on the reins.

"Where's this friggin' creek then?"

"Let's find it," Sam sighed, silently embracing thoughts of drowning Dean in it.

Together the little band of three turned slightly westwards and continued their long, dusty trek as the sun dipped below the horizon before them.

xxxxx

Bobby's tired eyes drifted open and scanned hazily across the room as the early dawn light filtered weakly through the grimy window pane.

He took in the usual sights that greeted him every morning when he awoke; dust, cobwebs, piles of mildew-stained books, ramshackle furniture, sleeping angel, frayed rug, faded upholstery …

... sleeping angel?

He turned back to stare at the figure untidily slumped in the chair, open book draped across it's bloostained chest.

Whoever would have thought that angels snored?

xxxxx

Sam sat huddled beside an sorry looking outcrop of straggling gorse bushes, poking the small fire he had managed to light. Not that they had anything to cook on it as Dean had pointed out to him on numerous occasions; but, Sam reflected, at least it would keep them warm later on when twilight gave over to darkness.

From the other side of the bushes, Sam could hear Lars whittering softly, and the uncomfortably close trickling sounds of Dean answering nature's call.

Staring unblinking through the twilight Sam watched the flames flicker and dance around a little pot of creek water he had put on the fire to boil. He didn't actually know why he was boiling the water; it wasn't like they had anything to put in it to turn it into anything remotely interesting like coffee or soup, but on the plus side it was a welcome distraction from the muttering and zipping sounds behind him.

He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples as he tried to rationalise exactly how much trouble the Winchesters had gotten themselves into this time. Somewhere … sometime ... whatever, Bobby and Castiel were still where they'd left them. Were they trying to get the boys back? Did they even realise they were trapped?

Sam groaned.

And now here he was sitting in the dark in the middle of nowhere, boiling a pot of water on a camp fire for no apparent reason and listening to Dean moaning for possibly the ten thousandth time about being hungry while emptying his bladder about eighteen inches from the back of Sam's head.

The word doesn't exist to describe how much this sucked.

He was abruptly jolted out of his musings by a sudden fracas of rustling, stomping, yelling activity behind him;

"Sammy…" Dean snorted excitedly, dashing past Lars from around the bush; "look, supper!"

Sam's jaw dropped as Dean stood before him beaming in triumph and clutching a wriggling jackrabbit.

"What the hell?" Sam looked up at the terrified animal, it's huge eyes bulging partly in terror and partly from being squeezed so tightly as Dean held it out towards Sam like a sacrificial offering.

"We can eat this;" Dean grinned, "stupid li'l guy ran right across in fron' of me!"

Sam stared in disbelief at the quivering animal; "well, you'd better kill it first."

Dean's smile faded.

"well yeah … I know that," he muttered looking down at the trembling little creature squirming in his hands.

Sam waited ...

"... Something wrong?"

"No," Dean snapped irritably.

"Well if you want to cook and eat it you've got to finish it off first, so get on and break it's neck, that's the kindest way."

Dean looked down at the rabbit again, cringing as It stared up at him with huge bulging eyes, white rimmed with fear.

"Quit lookin' at me, Bugs;" Dean snorted.

"Dad told us what to do; remember when he showed us how to kill and skin a rabbit on that camping trip in the Appalachians?"

Dean shrugged, "uh, yeah …"

"You threw up."

"Yeah, thank you for the friggin' recap, bitch; I know how to kill a damn rabbit."

"… well?"

"I'm just buildin' up to it."

He bit his lip as he looked down at the little shivering animal which peered back up at him from within his vice-like grip with huge, pebble-round chocolate brown eyes; It twitched it's nose.

Sam broke into a grin; "You don' want to kill the liddle-bitty fluffy bunny wabbit, you big girl."

It twitched it's nose again, and Dean's fragile resolve crumbled entirely.

"Alright smartass, you kill it;" he snorted, thrusting the rabbit into Sam's hands, "well, go on then Mr. freakin' hard man, break it's neck … it's easy," Dean huffed, folding his arms triumphantly.

Sam looked briefly stunned; "no, you caught it, you kill it." He rapidly shoved the bewildered animal back into Dean's arms as if it were a ticking bomb.

"I don' want it," snapped Dean, almost throwing it back to Sam in his haste.

"Well, I don't want it either," Sam pushed the rabbit back into Dean's chest.

Dean gave a deep sigh, as he lifted the little quivering, traumatised bundle and stared it straight in the eyes.

"You are one lucky little sonofabitch;" he gently put the rabbit down on the ground and watched it frantically scurry away.

"Oh God, we're pathetic;" Sam shook his head.

Dean sat heavily in front of the fire and crossed his legs.

"Rabbit sucks anyway; tastes like crap." he sighed glumly.

xxxxx

The angel's blue eyes flickered open and his first sight was a steaming mug of coffee hovering in front of his face.

"I don't know if angels drink coffee," muttered Bobby, handing the mug to his guest.

Taking the mug nervously, Castiel murmured his hesitant thanks, sitting up with a groan as the book across his chest slid to the floor.

Bobby sat heavily at his desk and took a long swig of the coffee, "take it from me, if you ain't got ya angel mojo up an' runnin', caffeine's the next best thing."

Without further words, he pulled a book across the desk towards him and began to pore silently through it's musty pages.

Castiel took a tentative sniff of the steaming black liquid and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

That'll be why angels don't drink coffee then.

xxxxx

Sitting on the dusty ground, hypnotised by the chirruping of crickets and the contented munching of Lars as he systematically dismantled of the gorse bushes beside them, the Winchesters stared dully into the dying embers of their little fire.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"I'm hungry."

xxxxx

tbc

_nb: just in case anyone is unsure ... Lars is, of course, named after Lars Ulrich, the Metallica drummer!_


	3. Chapter 3

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 3

Dean's illusions of the Wild West continue to shatter ...

xxxxx

The late afternoon sun was well into it's descent when then brothers trudged over the crest of what Dean had called 'the seven millionth hill in this whole frickin' shithole,' and caught their first sight of Possum Creek about three miles ahead.

Under normal circumstances the small, dismal huddle of dust-stained wooden buildings would have been depressingly underwhelming but to the two exhausted, sweat-soaked, filthy, ravenously starving and footsore Winchesters it looked like the most beautiful sight on earth.

It had been two and a half days since either of them had eaten. Subsisting on only water from the creek, the boys were practically delirious with hunger, clutching their painfully empty bellies as thoughts of food tormented their every waking moment.

In fact the only member of the small party who seemed to have done well out the journey was Lars who had admirably disposed of almost everything vaguely green he had found on the way and as a consequence was positively glowing with radiant satisfaction.

The approach to Possum Creek saw Dean taking his turn in riding the horse, Sam trudging closely alongside them, leaning into the reassuring pressure of his brother's knee against his arm as he walked, almost as an incentive to stay upright.

Dean reached down and removed his sherriff's badge to avoid drawing attention to himself and dropped it into a pocket; "I swear to God, Sammy; If we can't find any food in this dive, I'm gonna eat you," he muttered.

Sam looked indignant; "what about the horse?"

Dean shook his head, "nah, he earns his keep, he stays."

He was rewarded by a sharp elbow in the shin.

xxxxx

Dean dismounted under the sign that welcomed them to Possum Creek, swaying precariously as his feet touched ground, and together they began to traipse through the desolate town; the few townsfolk that were milling around among the dust and tumbleweed eyed them with a sullen curiosity but made no move to approach them which suited the boys just fine.

"Saloon!"

Sam didn't have to say another word as he pointed to the tallest building in the street. Within a minute Lars found himself tethered to the town trough watching his two riders heading towards the ramshackle building with more energy than they had been able to muster for most of the last two days.

Stumbling through the swing doors, the brothers approached the bar behind which stood a cadaverous, sour-faced figure; his thin, heavily oiled hair slicked down and sporting a vicious centre parting that looked like it had been cut with a knife and fork.

Leaning on the bar, Dean tried to look as casual as his sunburned, unshaven, bleary eyed appearance would allow.

"Wan' a room and somethin' to eat," he drawled confidently.

"Got a room," the figure responded flatly; "it's only got one bed." He glanced between the brothers with a smirk.

Dean glared. "Has it got a floor?"

"Yup."

"He can sleep on that then," Dean replied, pointing his thumb at Sam and returning the smirk.

Sam fired an indignant elbow into his brother's ribs.

The bartender spoke again; "ain't got no food, only liquor." Customer service was clearly not high on his list of priorities.

Concerned that Dean's fragile veneer of control was about to crack, and foreseeing the very real possibility of being hustled out of another town with the law on their ass, Sam pushed past his scowling brother and stepped forward to rescue the situation.

"Look mister; me and my brother were robbed on the way here; outlaws from over Sunrise way. They took all our money, but they missed this." He placed his pocket watch on the counter; "this is a good watch; it's yours for a couple of nights in your room, some food and shelter for our horse and some decent chow for us.

The bartender looked down at the watch and up at the two men standing in front of him. It was clear he didn't believe a word of Sam's story; it was also clear that he thought the Winchesters in their starved, dishevelled state, were clearly too big and too desperate to be messed with.

And besides, it WAS a good watch.

"Two nights in the room, ma boy will stable ya horse an' ma wife will warm y'up some stew for tonight. I c'n give you some bread an' coffee in the morning."

"Thanks;" Sam smiled, almost wilting with relief. Dean's fractious belly growled it's own gurgling thanks.

The brothers turned and ambled across the dimly-lit room, their footsteps echoing across the sticky wooden floor, and settled themselves at a table as far into the corner of the saloon as they could find. The place was almost deserted, the only signs of life apart from the Winchesters and Mister Happy the Bartender, being a massive spider clinging to a web which actually enhanced the scant décor of the wall behind their table and two guys so engrossed in a poker game that the entire US cavalry could have galloped through the bar and they wouldn't have noticed. It was a state of affairs which pleased the Winchesters greatly.

Sam glanced across the room to see two girls standing on the staircase; one of them was fairy-tale pretty, the other bore a startling resemblance to Lars. The pretty one was slowly gyrating her hips against the bannisters and advertising her wares in a way which would normally have Dean shoving dollar bills down her cleavage with glee. Instead, Sam observed with concern, he probably hadn't even noticed the girls and was just slumped in the chair staring blankly into his lap, slowly blinking as his glassy, shadowed eyes betrayed his crushing exhaustion. Sam guessed that Dean, being the one with the bigger appetite, would also be the one who would be worst affected by enforced fasting.

"Feel like shit Sammy." Dean scrubbed a trembling hand across his drawn, stubbled face, and groaned. The hand migrated south, and kneaded his stomach through the gnawing hunger pains as he looked up at Sam. "Y'ok?"

Sam rolled his shoulders and let out mirthless laugh. "I'm filthy, unshaven, trapped 150 years from home in downtown redneck central, I don't think I've ever been so tired and hungry;" he shrugged, "I'm awesome."

xxxxx

Moments passed in silence before Sam looked up over Dean's bowed head and his weary features lifted into a smile as he patted Dean's wrist; "hey, chow time dude, stew's on it's way."

The smile dropped almost as soon as it had appeared when the Bartender deposited two bowls of steaming brown sludge on the table in front of them. Extracting his thumb from Sam's stew he walked wordlessly away, sucking the gravy off of it.

The brothers stared silently into their bowls until Dean looked up at Sam.

"Looks like …"

"I know what it looks like, man."

Dean leaned cautiously over his bowl.

"Smells like it too."

"Just eat it, already!"

"Sam, I've puked up stuff that looks more appetising than that."

Sam swallowed back a rising nausea and took a deep breath, deciding to lead by example. Picking up his spoon, he dug into the brown goo.

Nose wrinkling in disgust, his eyes watered as he fought to suppress the gag reflex, it took a moment but eventually he composed himself enough to swallow.

Blinking through a haze of tears he could see Dean staring at him.

"S'good;" he croaked unconvincingly, swallowing back the overwhelming urge to hurl, "dig in."

Dean grimaced, and shovelled a spoonful of the muddy slop into his mouth.

He froze, hamster-cheeked for a moment as the gluey muck stubbornly refused to move however hard he tried to swallow, until eventually with a snort and a gasp, gravity did it's work, and he choked it down.

He doubled over coughing and spluttering, then looked up at Sam through watering, slightly crossed eyes; what the hell kind of meat was that?"

Sam shrugged, "I dunno, but I know one thing ... I haven't seen any rats around since we got here, have you?"

Dean grimaced. "Man, that's freakin' disgustin'."

"It's the only food we're gonna get, so you'd better get it down you one way or the other," Sam sighed and steeled himself for another mouthful.

xxxxx

Keeping themselves going by their shared belief that they would eventually develop a taste for it (they didn't), and it would, therefore, start to taste better as they went on (it didn't); between them, the Winchesters managed to choke down their meal.

Dean was on his fifth whisky in an attempt to bleach his mouth of it's taste.

"My belly feels like it's about to explode," he groaned.

Sam lifted his head out of his hands, "I think mine dissolved."

Hearing footsteps behind them, they both looked round; it was the pretty girl. Her peach-soft face was ringed with blonde curls which pooled around her slim shoulders. She stood next to the boys and smiled a demure, tight-lipped smile at them as she swayed her hips provocatively in their direction.

Dean smiled for the first time in what seemed like an age as he looked up into the girl's sparkling blue eyes; she eyed his dust-stained, unshaven face hungrily, the tip of a tiny pink tongue moistening her rosebud lips. Dean's own lips curled into a smirk, "hey baby," he growled, his voice harsh with dust, whisky and evil stew; "are you included with the meal?"

Sam smiled, shaking his head, reassured that Dean must be feeling better.

She sauntered around to the other side of the table, tracing Dean's jaw line with a feather-light fingertip as she moved.

"Depends how hungry you are, handsome;" she replied with a broad grin.

It wasn't just the fact that she only had one tooth that shocked Dean into falling backwards off the chair, it wasn't even the fact that the one tooth she did possess was in pretty ropey condition, but the fact that when she lunged at him with a kiss like a sink plunger his life really did flash before his eyes as his body began to shut down through lack of oxygen.

He scrambled to his feet, "Sam," he panted, "time to go."

Sam nodded courteously to the bewildered girl as he watched his brother charge frantically up the stairs. "It's been a long day," he smiled awkwardly, tipping his hat at the girl before following Dean up the stairs two at a time.

Xxxxx

The haphazard pile of empty coffee mugs and whisky tumblers was building up on Bobby's desk as between them he and Castiel ploughed through page after page of obscure lore, charms and histories. They skimmed through endless tedious volumes of latin enchantments and occult sorcery until their minds were scrambled, their bodies exhausted, and their eyes about to fall out of their heads.

"Our task is proving difficult because time travel is a theoretical impossibility; there is no evidence, empirical or anecdotal that any human has ever travelled or will ever travel in time;" Castiel sighed, closing the largest book on his pile. "Our chances of finding anything helpful are almost zero."

Bobby yawned, rubbing red-rimmed eyes, and fired a withering glare at the angel; "I tell ya what; just keep that sort of crap, to yourself, huh?"

Castiel canted his head curiously; "it is advisable to understand your criteria for success and failure before undertaking any challenge, is it not?"

Bobby's death glare darkened; "it's advisable to understand that if you don't shut ya trap right now, I'll shove a friggin' book in it."

Looking down sheepishly, the angel sighed; "I will continue to read."

Bobby snorted; "you do that!"

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 4

A bad evening doesn't improve and as for the morning? Well …

xxxxx

The Winchesters crept along the landing and cautiously opened the door to their room.

As the rough wooden door swung open with a pained squeak, both brothers leaned forward and squinted into the dilatory space behind it.

Their hearts sank.

Aside from the fact it was dirty, completely devoid of any decoration and utterly depressing, the words 'broom cupboard' spontaneously sprung to both brothers' minds.

"Crap, the Impala's trunk is bigger than this!" Dean groaned, looking up at Sam with despairing eyes.

Walking into the room, they bumped shoulders as they attempted to manouevre around each other. Overbalancing, Dean found himself pushed down on the bed courtesy of a flying elbow as Sam shuffled around Dean's splayed feet to light the oil lamp which sat on a small table at the end of the room.

"Well, it's all we've got," Sam sighed, "so we might as well make the best of it."

Stumbling over Dean's feet, he turned to sit on the ancient bed next to Dean and began to remove his boots; the bed's wooden frame squeaked and bowed menacingly under their combined weight.

Following his brother's lead, Dean bent forward to remove his boots, but quickly uprighted himself with a sharp gasp, grimacing in pain. "Jeez…" he panted, clutching his side.

Glancing at Dean in concern, Sam laid a hand on Dean's slumped shoulder. "What's wrong dude?" He noticed a faint sheen of sweat glowing across Dean's brow in the dim, flickering lamplight.

"Dunno," Dean moaned quietly, sucking in a breath; "it's that friggin' stew; I think my belly's still trying to figure out what to do with it."

Sam squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand.

"jus' cramps." Dean sighed, arching his back to try to stretch the cramp out of his belly and shrugging his shoulder out from beneath Sam's hand; "s'alright now."

He glanced around the room; "that's a point; what's a man supposed to do if he … you know?"

Sam shrugged, "don' know, dude, there might be some kind of bathroom along the landing;" he kicked his boots under the bed and heard a hollow 'ding' as they clattered against something ceramic.

The brothers looked at each other, noses wrinkling in disgust.

"Ewwww…." they moaned in unison.

xxxxx

Castiel scanned the book he was holding; squinting at it's musty pages as all the words began to spin and blend into one jumbled mass. Was it possible for an angel to lose the will to live? He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and guessed that maybe it was.

He glanced across the dim room to see Bobby slumped unconsciously across his desk. His left hand cradled an empty whisky bottle as he snored into the well-thumbed vellum of another ancient tome.

So far their combined efforts over four days had gleaned exactly nothing. Castiel grew more and more frustrated by his wound and the resultant weakness; what use was an angel who couldn't do anything - well - angelic? Sure, he was slowly recovering, but he was still a long way off being able to do anything more ambitious than brew Bobby yet another cup of coffee. He felt utterly helpless as he sat watching the older man descending deeper into forlorn desperation with each passing day.

He knew helplessness was a very human feeling, and he really couldn't understand how the poor creatures could bear it.

Because he couldn't.

xxxxx

Getting undressed for bed was proving to be a trial as the brothers hopped and gyrated around each other in the claustrophobic cubbyhole. Finding himself once again on the receiving end of a haymaker as Sam pulled off his overshirt, Dean overbalanced, jeans pooled round his ankles, and faceplanted into Sam's chest. Eventually, however, exhaustion did it's job and saw the brothers settled; Dean in the room's tiny bed, flat on his back, feet hanging off the end of the thin, mysteriously stained mattress, and Sam lying on the grubby floor next to him using their duffel as a pillow and Dean's long coat as a blanket.

Sam's eyes scanned the ceiling, listening to Dean's sighs as he drifted into sleep; the bedsprings creaking each time he shifted on the lumpy mattress. Knowing he was in for an uncomfortable night, Sam hoped against hope that Dean's unsettled belly would settle soon. In a room this small with no bathroom; the consequences of a unpleasant stew aftermath didn't bear thinking about.

Squeezing his eyes closed he tried to force sleep out of them, doing his best to think of nice, soothing things … playing soccer, kissing Jess, driving the Impala, sunshine, puppies, spiders …

Spiders?

His eyes flicked open to see another long legged beastie, looking disturbingly like the one that had accompanied them in the saloon during their meal, sprawled across the ceiling looking down on him

He sighed; "God, I hate this place."

xxxxx

When Sam next opened his eyes, the dawn sunlight was filtering weakly through the tiny, grime coated window in their room. He tried to move, groaning as every stiff, cold muscle protested. Eventually, defying his aching back and numb ass he managed to ease himself up into a sitting position and glanced, blinking, across to the bed.

Dean was laying on his side, curled into a ball, his arm firmly clamped across his midriff. He looked nauseously grey, the sheen of sweat still very much in evidence, glistening across his face.

Sensing Sam's presence, his eyes fluttered open, and he attempted a faint smile.

"You ok there dude?" Sam asked, "you don't look too good."

Dean swallowed harshly and shook his head. "stomach hurts … friggin' stew;" he mumbled into his pillow.

Gripping the mattress for support Sam climbed to his knees and heaved himself onto the bed to sit beside his brother.

"where does it hurt?"

Dean tried to straighten a little as he pressed his hand over his navel, then down to his right hip. "all 'cross there" he groaned.

Sam felt a shiver of dread through his body; he sucked in a deep breath.

"sharp pain?"

Dean nodded; the nod turned into a shake of the head. "Sometimes … mostly aches."

He drew his knees back up into his chest, sucking in another shaky breath as he did so.

"You feel sick bro'?"

The nod was barely perceptible.

"Is it worth me trying to find a doctor?"

"What here? You jokin'?" Dean snorted.

Scraping a hand over his face, Sam glanced up to the ceiling. Their roommate had been wandering in the night, and had made it to the corner of the ceiling above Dean's bed; it sat there, eight legs spreadeagled around it, blissfully oblivious to the drama going on below it.

Sam sighed. Damned spiders were all over the place in this craphole; wouldn't be surprised if there were a few in that stew last night; he'd even dreamed about the disgusting, creepy things.

He turned his attentions back to Dean who had hauled himself up into a sitting position next to his brother, and sat hunched, clutching his belly and groaning miserably.

"Couldn't sleep prop'ly," Dean sighed, rubbing heavy lidded, glassy eyes.

"stomach ache?" Sam ventured.

Dean nodded, "yeah, plus I kep' havin' friggin' nightmares," Dean groaned; "kep' dreamin' about spiders."

Sam froze; "spiders?"

"yeah," Dean shuddered, "like that creepy, fugly sonofabitch up there". He pointed up above his head.

"Dean, that's weird, I dreamed about spiders last night."

Dean gave a cold smile; "well, who knows what shit was in that stew; any wonder we're havin' bad dreams … it must have been like eatin' ten pounds of cheese right before bed."

Sam took in Dean's grey, clammy face, his almost four days of beard growth. Sam rubbed his hand across his own chin and felt the same greasy stubble. Both brothers hadn't been able to freshen up in four days and the stench of grime and sweat in the room was overpowering.

"Let see if I can find some water and soap so we can have scrub up," Sam suggested, "and then maybe we can find a barber so we can have a shave." He looked across at Dean, knowing that his brother would be hating being this filthy and unwashed as much as he was; "that might make us feel better."

Dean nodded unenthusiastically, his hand still clamped firmly around his middle.

Sam stood up reaching for his jeans when the door was suddenly flung open.

xxxxx

Sam stumbled forward, almost head butting the wall as Dean leapt off the bed in shock, crumpling back down in pain immediately afterwards.

"That's them," grunted a man who Sam immediately recognised as the blacksmith from Sunrise. He looked across at the man's oppo who wore a sheriff's badge and, more worryingly, held a rifle pointed directly at Dean.

Behind them, Sam could see the wizened figure of the bartender, peering between the shoulders of the two much taller men.

The brothers glanced at each other; their mutual expressions a mixture of dread and defeat.

"Those was my damn horses you two sonsofbitches stole," the blacksmith scowled then turned to Dean alone; "an' I saw that that devil magic what you done when you burned that man all up."

He glared pure hatred at the Winchesters; "Sunrise ain't got a sheriff right now since you murdered the last one with your dark magic, new one's on his way;" he continued, "so the good sheriff here in Possum is goin' to deal with you thievin' bastards, an' he don't like outsiders, 'specially not ones that do wicked witchery an' steal good men's horses."

Dean opened his mouth, wanting to explain that it wasn't him that killed the last sheriff, but somehow, he didn't think either of these men would believe him.

Sam raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "We don't want any trouble buddy…" he began.

"Well, that's too bad, 'cos you gotta whole heap of trouble; buddy." The sheriff spat the last word as if it were an insult; "now git yer asses down the stairs, and don't try none of that devil magic."

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 5

The wild west turns bleaker and bleaker for the boys. They meet one of Possum Creek's more unsavoury characters.

_Possum Creek Sheriff's Office_

_xxxxx_

Sam stood forlornly in the middle of his dismal cell, his tongue worrying his swollen, bleeding lip. He sighed, leaning on the rusty bars across the door and craned his neck, watching Sheriff Obadiah Walton moving around his office.

Walton had made no attempt to disguise his intense dislike of the Winchesters. It soon became worryingly obvious that he had them tried and convicted without the need to resort to the inconvenience of consulting twelve good men and true.

According to Walton, the whole town of Sunrise had seen Dean burn that man up, and his blacksmith friend had seen them ride away on his horse; a giant, wall-eyed black and white thing, not exactly easy to argue the man may have been mistaken.

So that was it, apparently; justice 1861-style.

xxxxx

Casting his racing mind back to his pre-law days, Sam had employed his best debating skills, firstly to try to convince the hard-headed man of their best intentions in killing Finch back in Sunrise, secondly to try to secure something resembling a fair trial, and thirdly to try to talk Walton into putting them together in the same cell.

He had failed parlously on all counts, Walton's response to his sincere entreaties being along the lines of, 'shut ya goddamned trap before I shut it for ya;' followed swiftly by a backhander across the mouth just to reinforce the point.

This was getting serious; deadly serious. This lunatic had it within his power to string them both up; although, Sam reflected fearfully, if Dean's condition continued to deteriorate at it's current rate he might well save the hangman a job.

Peering through the bars between them, his sense of unease grew at how still his brother had become as he lay curled up on his side on the bench which also doubled as his bed. He spoke up quietly; "how you doin' dude?"

Dean grunted into his arm without even lifting his head to look at Sam.

Sam could see Dean's back heaving with each pained breath, his right arm tucked firmly into his side, trembling fist pressing and kneading into the hollow above his hipbone, trying to create some relief from the growing pain. The sheen of sweat across Dean's neck told Sam all he needed to know.

Dean had not endeared himself to Walton by vomiting twice over the floor of his office as the brothers had been manhandled into their separate cells. Since then, his condition had declined rapidly, and Sam's frantic concern had peaked accordingly.

Pacing up and down his cell, Sam grew increasingly frantic as he heard Dean panting, letting loose the occasional groan as he tried to move or shift his arm. His agitation was climbing to the degree that he was going to do something stupid if he wasn't allowed to join Dean, to be a comforting presence for his sick brother to lean into, something warm and protective.

He had a fair idea what was wrong with Dean. He hoped against hope that he was wrong, but everything pointed to the fact. If Sam was right this would have been the cruellest joke Winchester luck had ever played on the brothers.

There was no cure for appendicitis in the old west.

Xxxxx

Castiel glanced up over the top of his latest reading material at Bobby.

His strength was returning; he could feel it. The wound was closing, gradually healing. Although he was a long way from be able to retrieve the Winchesters, he had begun feel them. Nothing specific or definite, but for a while now, he had been picking up their feelings, their reactions; Dean would have called it their vibes.

And it wasn't good.

He felt he should share this news with Bobby, but he wasn't convinced the older man was in any fit state to know such a thing. He was consumed with worry already.

Castiel took in the slumped shoulders, ragged, ungroomed beard and red-rimmed eyes of the older hunter. He squinted over the top of his book, surreptitiously watching Bobby sigh as he turned another unhelpful page, pinching the bridge of his nose, and chugging back another burning measure of hunter's helper.

Castiel decided to go with the tactful approach; he would assess whether Bobby was ready to hear his news.

He cleared his throat; "how are you coping with our lack of success Bobby?" He just managed to duck as the glass tumbler smashed against the wall behind his head.

Perhaps he would keep this development to himself for a while.

xxxxx

Sam's head whirled as he considered his options. If he could find a suitable tool, he could pick the lock easily. One lock was easily picked, but two? He wasn't going anywhere without Dean, so that meant there were two locks that needed dealing with.

Dean was in no condition to be on the run; would Sam be able to carry Dean out of the jail without being seen? Without being stopped?

Assuming everything went exactly to plan; he successfully picked the locks, and got them out of the building and the town unseen, where would they go?

Was there anything to be gained from trying to escape?

His head slumped onto his chest. Yep, screwed to hell didn't even begin to describe it. Well and truly up Shit Creek, or possibly even Possum Creek without a paddle.

Jolted out of his musings, he heard a hoarse moan next to him.

"Dean?" He leapt to his feet and leaned into the bars separating his cell from Dean's.

Dean had rolled onto his back, his arm clamped across his waist, his moan rising into a pained cry. Sam looked down on the bloodless face, and reached through the bars, stretching as he tried to touch his brother's sweat dampened head, desperate to afford even a small amount of comfort.

"S-Sam … oh God, hurts …"

Sam's trembling fingertips fell just inches short of his brother's spiky hair. "I'm here Dean, right here; just can't reach you," he gasped, pressing himself as hard against the metal bars as he could, trying to eke a couple of extra inches out of his straining shoulder.

Dean's rapid breaths began to steady as the pain subsided.

"B-better ..."

Both brothers flinched on hearing a sharp clang across the bars, as Walton smashed a rifle butt against them

"I told ya to shut your goddamn noise."

Sam rounded on Walton, his former meek submission melting into fury."He's sick, you moron," Sam gestured angrily towards Dean, "and in pain."

Walton raised his rifle, turning it round; "well maybe I should just put the sorry bastard out of his misery then."

Stepping back rapidly, Sam raised his hands in submission; "okay, okay; look I'm sorry. Please, he's sick; he's in a lot of pain." Sam hesitated to see if he was making inroads into Walton's sense of humanity; the signs weren't encouraging.

"Please let me go into his cell and sit with him, I think that'll calm him down."

Walton glared at Sam, a horrible sneer curling his tobacco stained lips;

"What, you two no-goods think I'm stupid?"

Sam resisted with all his might the urge to say, 'yes, I think you're a complete cretin, and if you weren't pointing a gun at my sick brother's head I would gladly tear your face off;' but instead took a deep breath and nauseously swallowed his anger again.

"No sir," he mumbled, choking on the words.

"I let you into his cell, and the next thing, I'm getting my throat cut when you two scheming bastards make a break for it."

Sam pointed to Dean, still curled up on his bed, watching the exchange from under heavy-lidded eyes. "Look at him; he's not going anywhere."

Walton folded his arms, "Yeah, yeah … seen it all before."

Sam's jaw dropped. "You think he's faking it?"

That horrible sneer crossed Walton's face again.

Trembling with anger, sam continued; "what about the sweating, the grey face, the shivering, the nausea; he faking that too?" He looked across at Dean again, curling tighter in on himself, his groans had subsided into rapid panting breaths.

"I ain't wastin' my time talkin' to you, smart-ass." Walton turned to walk away.

Sam scraped a hand across his face and took a deep shuddering breath to compose himself.

"Please," he began; "please let me go into my brother's cell." He briefly switched on the puppy-dog eyes before realising he was wasting his time; pearls before swine.

"I won't give you any trouble. You can cuff me to the bars if that will make you feel safer; please just let me sit with my brother."

Walton snorted and walked away, waving his hand dismissively. "Damn chickenshit suckers," he grumbled as he went; "sick eh? See 'bout that."

Sam watched him go, and his head dropped limply against the bars separating him from his brother; "I'm sorry dude, I don't know what to do."

"We're screwed Sammy," Dean whispered, trying his damndest to calm his shuddering breaths; "'m sorry … my stupid idea to come here."

His breath hitched and he shivered, drawing his knees up to his chest through another wave of pain.

Frustration and rage boiled over and Sam roared, landing a smashing punch against the metal bars, startling Dean as the entire structure of the cell shook. He barely felt the pain of his knuckles cracking under the assault.

xxxxx

A few minutes passed before Walton returned to the cells with another man. A comically small, ferrety man, with stray grey hairs sprouting out of the sides of his largely bald head; he sported thick pince-nez glasses and an expression that was living proof of a life lived without love.

"Yeah, claims he's sick … groaning and clutchin' his guts;" Walton snorted contemptuously, "but I'm not havin' the bastard kickin' it before I can get the arrangements made; better check him over."

Sam bristled, guessing what those 'arrangements' were.

He looked up; "hey, are you a doct…"

"Can it;" barked Walton, as he unlocked the door to Dean's cell, walking in behind the small man. Sam reflected that with his black suit and solemn expression he had the air of an undertaker; the thought was a little too close to home.

Flinging himself at the bars, Sam shouted across the cell; "He's real sick, I think it's his append…" he recoiled as the trusty rifle butt was smashed against the bars once again.

"It'll be your goddamned head next time."

With a stark lack of bedside manner, the doctor rolled his patient over onto his back, and without ceremony or sympathy, pulled Dean's T shirt up, pushing probing fingers into his rigid abdomen.

Clinging to the bars, Sam shook with silent rage as Dean cried out, grimacing and trying to curl up under the assault. Numb to the swelling and darkening bruises of his broken knuckles, Sam's overwhelming fury proved a powerful anaesthetic. He could feel nothing except the pain of his concern for Dean.

The doctor looked up at Walton and shrugged; "well, he's sick alright, but nothin' more than a bad of attack of gas I'd say." He rummaged in his black case, "a good dose of caster oil will do the job."

"No," Sam roared, shaking the bars wildly, "it's not that, it's his appendix; you can't give him that you stupid sonofabitch, you'll hurt him."

Another slam of the rifle across the bars, this time catching Sam across the bridge of the nose, he staggered backwards, clutching his face and cursing as Walton roughly hoisted Dean into a sitting position allowing the doctor to force a dose of the disgusting liquid down his throat, irritably repeating the process as his distressed patient choked the cloying slick back up.

Leaving Dean to sink bonelessly back down on the bed, Walton held the cell door open gesturing the doctor out of the cell; "he'll be fine in a few hours," the doctor confirmed without casting a second glance back at his patient.

xxxxx

Sam shook the bars to his cell, "Dean, you ok?"

Dean shuffled weakly across the bed, clutching at his stomach, shaking, and coughing before lying down again.

"S'mmy, … , he leaned weakly into the corner of the wall and the bars, fighting to keep his eyes open.

Resting his head against the bars which stood between him and his brother, Sam closed his eyes. He was comforted by the throbbing of his broken hand; in suffering too, he felt closer to Dean.

He reached through the bars and took Dean's hand in his own, uninjured hand squeezing it gently, making no effort to wipe away the tear which slid down his cheek.

Sam didn't see the spider which scuttled across the floor between the brothers, and settled itself quietly in the corner.

Xxxxx

tbc

_Although this is a fairly dark chapter I am smiling broadly because yesterday I celebrated my first fanfic birthday! Yes, one whole year of torturing Dean ... life is good :D_


	6. Chapter 6

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 6

Sam ponders the brothers' predicament; but nothing is ever as it seems.

xxxxx

Sam leaned despondently into the bars separating him from Dean. His arm threaded through the bars enabling him to keep a hand resting on Dean's head, long fingers carding absently through the sweat soaked hair.

Feeling the fevered tremors racking Dean's body through the palm of his hand, Sam's heart ached for his brother. Dean had fallen almost silent, scared his pained moans would earn Sam another battering with Sheriff Walton's rifle butt, and no amount of coaxing and reassuring could elicit a word out of the suffering man. Only Sam in his close proximity could hear the constant breathy groans which rumbled quietly in the back of his throat, as he curled tighter and tighter in on himself, desperate to find some respite from his suffering.

Sam swallowed back his hatred for Walton and reflected with relief that he hadn't seen or heard him for a couple of hours. Not that he missed him; the man was a card-carrying sadist with all the charm and sympathy of an epidemic. He'd heard him moving around the office on the other side of the cells earlier; his chair scraping backwards across the hollow wooden floor, the creak as he lowered his substantial bulk into it, followed by the rustling of papers and irritable mutterings, some revoltingly animated eating noises and finally, a loud and nauseating belch was the last sound the brothers had heard from their jailor.

The meals that Walton had grudgingly pushed under the bars for the two prisoners sat on the floor on grubby wooden plates. A hunk of rustic, slightly mouldy bread and cheese which smelt like feet. Sam hadn't touched his; his fear and worry had chased away his appetite and Walton's offering had done nothing to tempt it.

Dean hadn't even noticed his was there.

xxxxx

Bobby had been keeping an eye on his guest all morning. Castiel looked shifty and pale; Bobby couldn't be sure but he would have been prepared to swear there was a sheen of sweat across the angel's furrowed brow.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of him. "Okay, out with it; What the hell's wrong with ya?"

Castiel glanced up from a long, faded parchment to look at at Bobby's stern face. "There is nothing wrong; I am recovering well," he responded nervously.

"I'm not talkin' about ya puncture" Bobby snorted, standing up over his desk; "you've been jumpin' like a cat on hot bricks ever since I woke up." His eyes narrowed suspiciously, "now, what's up?"

Castiel cocked his head in confusion, then pointed hesitantly at the ceiling.

"Bobby rolled his eyes; "God preserve us - that's not what I mean ya moron," he sighed. "Something's wrong; now, are ya gonna tell me what's the matter or do I hafta beat it out of ya?"

Castiel took a deep breath; "I am - um - uncomfortable. " He made a point of rubbing the site of his healing wound to illustrate the point.

"Yer also a friggin' bad liar;" Bobby's eyes bored menacingly into the angel, making him squirm. "Have you found something?"

Castiel wilted under Bobby's grim gaze; "I - uh - have a question." he asked earnestly; "if you knew something that you also knew would hurt or worry someone you cared about, would you tell it to them?"

Bobby thought for a moment, unsure of where this was heading. "If it was something that was important to them, then yes I would," he answered eventually.

Castiel looked down to the ground with intense sadness in his eyes; "very well then; I am beginning to recover Bobby."

Bobby shrugged; "well that's good, ain't it?"

The angel's response was inscrutable; "as I grow stronger, I have started to feel them."

Bobby's face crumpled into something between puzzlement and suspicion; "what, you mean …?" He held out his hand making grabbing motions with his fingers.

Castiel shook his head; "no, I only feel their minds."

"Oh;" Bobby nodded to confirm his understanding, and folded his arms, gesturing for Castiel to continue.

"I have been starting to pick up their - uh - feelings," Castiel hesitated before continuing; "Bobby, they are in trouble."

Bobby winced, slowly sinking back down into his chair; "what sort of trouble?" he muttered weakly.

"I do not know, but it is bad. Very bad."

"Well, get them back then." Bobby's voice sunk into a desperate growl.

"I cannot;" Castiel shrugged miserably, "I am simply not strong enough yet."

Bobby spluttered, waving his arms helplessly at the angel; "well, try harder … do whatever it takes; y'can rest here as long as ya need to recover," he pleaded, "please, Castiel, please try again."

The angel's pale face looked mournfully up at Bobby, as he pulled open his trench coat revealing a swathe of crimson across his crumpled shirt; a sign that the steady healing of his wound had been catastrophically reversed.

Bobby paled as Castiel whispered; "I tried this morning."

xxxxx

Sam knew his brother was dying and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. As Dean's condition progressed, he wanted nothing more than to gather his shivering, pain-crazed brother into his arms and nurse him tightly through his last terrible hours, but even that small comfort was denied him. He had to take what comfort he could from the minimal contact he was able to maintain as he softly threaded his fingertips through Dean's damp hair. To make sure Dean, in his delirious confusion, knew he was still there he softly sung some of Dean's favourite songs that he could remember the words to, half expecting Walton to appear with his rifle butt any time.

Allowing his eyes to drift out of focus; Sam chanted a soothing mantra of nonsense as Dean squirmed weakly beneath his hand, desperate to find some relief from his suffering; arching his back and drawing his knees up to his chest, shuddering breaths accompanying each pained and ultimately futile shift.

Sam sighed, swallowing down the intense throb from his broken hand as he watched his little spider cell-mate navigate the edges of his cell; closing his eyes he allowed his head to drop back against the wall.

When his eyes flickered open, he thought he might have dozed off for a few minutes. He felt woozy, disoriented. Maybe he was still asleep; that would explain the extremely old American Indian lady that stood in front of him where he had last seen the spider.

He blinked in confusion and rubbed his eyes; she was still there. Not a dream then.

xxxxx

Sam instinctively glanced across to Dean, tightening his grip on his brother's burning scalp; Dean's glassy eyes blinked slowly as he stared up out of a pain-knotted face through the bars at Sam; that familiar low gasping grunt of pain still sounding with each laboured breath.

The woman who stood before him was old, so very old; generations-worth of deep wrinkles latticing her leathery face which was framed by a cascade of poker straight, matted grey hair. A pained stoop and a heavy gown of leather which completely engulfed her made her tiny frame look even smaller than it actually was.

Sam squinted as he noticed a disproportionately large wooden pendant hanging around her thin neck. It bore the image of a spider.

She regarded Sam with tiny sunken eyes, black as jet, which nevertheless sparkled from within her weatherbeaten face.

"W-who are you?" Sam whispered, nonplussed.

His visitor smiled benignly; "I am Subbeka'she; my people call me 'Grandmother'."

Sam stood up, relinguishing his grip on Dean's head and scraped his uninjured hand through his hair; he glanced sideways nervously. Although he hadn't seen or heard from Walton for a couple of hours now, he could have been anywhere and Sam didn't imagine him to be the tolerant or sympathetic type where native Americans were concerned. "What are you doing in here?" he whispered.

"I am my people and my people are me. I move back and forth through the intricate web of their lives, taking care of them and their forebears. I have been watching over them since the beginning of their time," was the old woman's cryptic response.

Completely perplexed, Sam opened his mouth to speak but she continued before he had a chance; "I have been with you since you came to this dangerous time."

Sam leaned towards the old woman; "my brother, he's really sick, he's going to die if we stay here; please ma'am, please can you help him?"

She shuffled toward him and placed a tiny arthritis riddled hand on his chest.

"Touch your brother, child."

Reaching back through the bars, Sam laid his hand on Dean's head again, and looked down at the tiny old lady. "I don't understand, why are you helping us?" he asked

"It is necessary to look to you past as well as your future to truly know yourself."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but recoiled as a blinding light filled the cell

xxxxx

When he opened his eyes again, blinking back shimmering points of light which crackled and swirled in front of his teary vision, it took a few seconds for Sam to realise he was kneeling on the floor of Bobby's kitchen; a startled Bobby and Castiel staring in open mouthed disbelief down at the dishevelled, filthy figures in front of them.

His awareness snapped back into him bringing with it a brief moment of panic until he looked behind him to see Dean lying on the floor next to him; grey faced, drenched in his own sweat and convulsing in pain; Sam scrambled across the floor and desperately gathered his stricken brother into his arms.

"Bobby," he croaked desperately, burying his face into Dean's dirty, sweat soaked hair. "We need to get him to a hospital right now."

xxxxx

tbc

_Next update will be in about ten days as I am taking my tent (and my husband) to a very beautiful and remote part of western England and opting out of the human race for a few days ... :)_


	7. Chapter 7

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 7

Dean is desperately sick, Sam and Bobby are desperately worried.

Castiel is just desperate to help.

xxxxx

Bobby and Castiel staggered backwards, staring open mouthed at the two dishevelled figures that materialised on the kitchen floor in front of them; Sam crouched, clutching his shivering brother; his hand, fingers taut with concern, splayed across Dean's rigid, distended abdomen.

Bobby shook his head in an attempt to regain his power of speech; "what the hell?" was all that he managed to blurt out.

Castiel knelt down beside the brothers and studied the two men intently. He took in Sam's frantic, wide-eyed panic and Dean's sickly grey pallor, the sheen of sweat glistening across his pain-tightened face. Placing a hand on Dean's heaving chest he could feel his racing heartbeat, and the harsh gasping breaths which he sucked in between each new burning wave of agony.

Letting out a hoarse moan, Dean squirmed against Sam's tight grip, trying once again to pull his knees up towards his chest in a vain effort to find some relief. Castiel nodded confidently, and stood, turning to Bobby with a grim expression.

"I believe he is unwell," he stated in complete earnestness.

Bobby's horror-stricken face reddened in anger; "I can see that, yer friggin halfwit," he barked.

xxxxx

Dropping to his knees beside the brothers, Bobby winced as aging joints crackled in protest and shucked his overshirt, laying it gently across Dean's body. He tenderly patted the suffering hunter's shoulder, pulling in a deep breath as he felt the heat radiating through the sweat-dampened T shirt.

Finding his tongue, Sam pleaded with Bobby; "please Bobby - we need to get him to hospital now, I think he's got appendicitis."

Castiel leaned over Bobby's shoulder, "should I call for assistance?"

Bobby shook his head as he threaded calloused fingers through Dean's damp hair, fingertips grazing his burning scalp; "no, don't bother with an ambulance; it'll be quicker for us to take him there ourselves."

"Shall I make him a coffee?"

The angel withered under Bobby's exasperated glare.

"Make yourself useful and unlock the friggin' truck." Bobby pointed to the keys hanging on the wall. He turned back to the brothers as Dean let out a breathless cry, still trying to curl in on himself.

"Oh, God Sammy … hur's …" he croaked miserably.

Bobby stood, scowling again as his knees once again voiced their disapproval, and spoke urgently; "Sam, get him up and out to the truck."

Nodding, Sam slipped his hand under Dean's back and legs, hoisting him as gently as possible against his chest, cringing as Dean let out another choking cry at the shift in position. Burying his face into Sam's neck, Dean panted nauseously as the taller man strode across the kitchen toward the waiting truck with it's impatient driver, already in situ.

"C'mon dude, it's gonna be alright - gonna get you help right now," Sam mumbled frantically as he climbed into the back seat of the truck with his precious burden.

xxxxx

_Three hours later …_

Bobby looked up as Sam wandered back along the billious green hospital hall, hands in his pockets.

"Doctor couldn't tell me much except that they've taken him straight into surgery," Sam sighed; "they started asking awkward questions about why we were both so dirty, so I told them he was taken ill on a wilderness hunting trip;" he shrugged; "I think they bought it."

They both hesitated, distracted by Castiel who, in the absence of anything contructive to do, was sitting in the corner intently examining a potted aspidistra.

Bobby rolled his eyes, shaking his head; "you were saying?"

"Uh yeah; they can't say how bad it is, but they're working on the assumption that the appendix has ruptured given the level of pain and the severity of his fever," Sam muttered with a heavy sigh, scraping a hand through his hair.

Bobby's eyes widened; "ruptured? B-but that's bad ain't it?"

"Yeah;" Sam muttered, slumping down into the uncomfortable plastic chair next to Bobby, his head dropping onto his hand; "it's real bad."

Castiel looked up from the plant as the two men settled into a despondent silence.

"Shall I fetch coffee?" He asked hopefully.

Xxxxx

Sam, Bobby and Castiel sipped their vending-machine regulation gnats-pee masquerading as coffee which was improved greatly by a generous measure of whisky from Bobby's hip flask.

Bobby took a deep breath as he relished the soothing burn. "So what happened, boy; how'd you get yourself home?"

Sam turned to Bobby; "no idea," he replied, "I was kinda thinking you'd managed to work something."

Bobby shook his head, "son, I wish I had;" he sighed, "I tried, God knows, we both did." He gestured with his head towards the angel who had turned his attentions back to the aspidistra; "he tried to get you back – poor bastard nearly gutted himself doing it."

Sam took a deep breath; "we were screwed Bobby – totally screwed;" he shuddered as if the memory was too painful to recollect.

"Whad'ya mean?" Bobby asked, concern etched across his haggard face.

"We ended up in jail," Sam began, "long story, but this psycho of a sheriff couldn't wait to get us strung up." He paused, "Dean was already getting sick by then. At first we thought it was something we ate but it got worse really quickly."

He swallowed, closing his eyes as he silently composed himself

"Sonofabitch wouldn't even let me sit with Dean, to give him a bit of reassurance."

Bobby remained silent, knowing that Sam had more to say.

"Dean was going to die Bobby," Sam looked up at Bobby tearfully; "he wasn't even going to make it to the gallows; he was going to die alone and in agony and there was nothing I could do to help."

Bobby visibly paled at the thought.

"So what happened, son?" he asked quietly.

Sam smiled, shaking his head; "I honestly don't know, Bobby," he replied, "but I think it was something to do with spiders."

There was a lengthy silence.

"Spiders?"

"Yeah, Bobby; spiders."

"Spiders?" Bobby repeated as if he was trying to convince himself that he was hearing correctly.

Castiel leaned round towards Bobby; "spiders are arachnids; there are many different species found all over the world. They hunt by means of a web spun out of adhesive gossamer which they produce within their bodies. They have an exoskeleton, bodies segmented into two sections, a head and abdomen, and eight le …"

The angel's words trickled away into silence as he shrunk under Bobby's glare.

"I will fetch more coffee," he murmured meekly.

xxxxx

As Castiel disappeared toward the vending machine, Sam continued his story.

"We saw spiders everywhere," he explained, "then while we were in the jail, and Dean was getting real bad, an old Indian lady just appeared in front of me; she was wearing a spider necklace."

Sam paused, studying Bobby's face to see if this was ringing any bells; the blank look on Bobby's face said that it didn't.

"She said some stuff about being her people and then her people being her," Sam said with a shrug; "and then she said she was their grandmother."

Sam looked at the older man; "mean anything to you?" he asked.

"Exactly squat" replied Bobby blankly, rubbing tired eyes, "then what?"

"Then she told me to touch Dean, and she touched me and here we are," answered Sam.

Bobby shrugged; "that's it?"

Sam nodded, "that's it - except I asked her why she was helping us."

"and?" Bobby prompted.

" and she said something about looking to our past as well as our future to find out who we really are." Sam responded with a shrug. "What'dya reckon?" he asked.

Bobby huffed dramatically; "beats me, kid; I got nothin'!"

Both men fell into a distracted silence again. Stomach churning with queasy concern, Sam looked at his watch and back along the hall with a sigh.

They stayed like that until Castiel appeared beside them, covered in coffee.

"I have had a mishap," he announced solemnly.

Xxxxxx

Sam sat beside the ICU bed containing his brother. Night had fallen and only a dim night light illuminated his sleeping brother's pallid face.

Having imparted the wonderful news to Sam, Bobby and the coffee stained Angel that Dean's fractious appendix hadn't ruptured; the doctor went on to add that he was sure it had been on the verge of doing so, and spent so long enthusiastically explaining how nasty and gruesome and inflamed it was that even Castiel started to look a little green.

But it was gone and Dean would recover. He would be unspeakably sore, infuriatingly grouchy and as pissed as hell when he discovered the shaved patch, but he would recover.

Rejoicing in the good news, Bobby had whisked Sam home to freshen up and then driven him back to the hospital, discreetly withdrawing to give the brothers some privacy.

Sam sat beside the bed and dozed, jolting awake as Dean shifted in his sleep with a grunt.

Sam leaned over, 'y'ok bro'?'

Dean took a deep breath; his brow furrowing briefly as he shifted, then he settled, murmuring quietly. Sam smiled when he heard the words.

"Head'm up, S'mmy Move'm ou' …"

Sam's fingertips brushed some stray strands of damp hair from his brother's forehead; "Ride 'em cowboy" he whispered.

xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 8

The boys begin to put their nightmare behind them, and start to discover a few answers.

xxxxx

Sam slipped an arm behind his brother's shoulders helping him sit up in the hospital bed, busily plumping and rearranging the pillows behind him. Dean winced, sucking in a tight breath as his newly stitched wound protested sharply at the change in position.

Overnight, and much to Sam's incalculable relief, Dean had drifted awake a few hours after his emergency appendectomy, and promptly wished he hadn't.

His pained moans had so concerned Sam that, as much as he wanted his brother awake, he felt compelled to press the button to deliver a welcome shot of morphine into Dean's IV, watching in relief as he stilled and quietened, slipping back into a pain-free slumber.

This afternoon, however, Dean's wakefulness was for real; he was alert - and vocal.

"Jeez Sam; feels like someone's taken a knife and fork to my friggin' belly," he groaned, chewing his lip against the stinging bite of the incision and trying wearily to position himself in a manner that didn't hurt.

"Well, I suppose, in a way, they kinda did…" Sam grinned down at his brother and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Dean's face, wearing his patented 'trapped in hospital' scowl, still hovered somewhere between queasily grey and bloodlessly white, even his smattering of freckles looked pale.

Sam had to stifle a smile; Dean's hospital gown swamped him, looking at least three sizes too big as he gradually sunk down into the mound of pillows behind him.

Dean did this every time and it amused Sam no end; he seemed somehow to physically shrink when he was in hospital. Sam never understood how he managed it, how could his six foot, 180 pound brother be lying there looking for all the world like a pissed-off sixth grader?

Sam decided to break the moody silence; "the doctor says you've got to try to get up and walk around," he explained.

"s'at mean I can leave?" Dean's eyes brightened.

Sam rolled his eyes; "No, it means you can get up and walk around."

Dean sighed melodramatically; wincing again, he reached under the bedclothes.

"Dude," Sam scolded, "knock it off with the scratchin' will you?"

"Can' help it, I friggin' itch," Dean responded sourly, "they nearly gave me the full freakin' Brazilian."

Sam grimaced, swallowing back a momentary queasiness as he desperately tried without success to unhear what Dean had just said. "Too much information, man." He groaned, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought.

Dean ignored him and carried on scratching enthusiastically.

xxxxx

They both turned as the door opened and Bobby marched through followed by a solemn Castiel.

"Hey kid;" Bobby's grizzled face lit up into a beaming smile at the sight of the elder Winchester sitting propped up in the bed.

"Ya look like crap, boy but it's good to see ya up an' awake."

Dean looked up Bobby with a droopy smile as the older man's calloused fingers squeezed the back of his neck.

"I might look like crap but at least I'm not an ol' relic," Dean snorted gruffly in response, his smile warming at the older man.

Castiel watched the exchange, his head canted in curiosity; "Good morning Dean," he smiled awkwardly, "I am very pleased to see that you are not dead."

Dean choked out a barking laugh, gasping as his tender undercarriage protested violently at the action.

"Ahhh, isn't that nice Dean," Sam grinned as he patted Dean's shoulder, but going no further; he was quite happy to allow Dean to take care of rubbing the painful bit.

Castiel gazed down at his friend through mournful blue eyes; "I am sorry that I was not able to retrieve you," he sighed.

Smiling back at the despondent angel, Dean replied, "s'okay Cas', Sam tol' me what happened; Bobby explained it all while I was being sliced up an' you were wrestlin' with the coffee machine."

He regarded the sorrowful face that stared down at it's feet, unable to meet his gaze.

"Hey Cas', I can't believe Bobby's soul was so old and decrepit, it couldn't heal you properly." Dean couldn't hide his grin as his eyes flickered up towards the older man standing, arms folded indignantly across his chest, beside him.

"It did not have enough energy and vigour to be able to ..." Castiel withered beneath the weight of Bobby's glare; "I will be quiet now."

xxxxx

Bobby yawned, scratching his head under his cap; "how ya doin' boy?" he asked with genuine concern in his tired eyes.

"Good, I guess; not hurtin' like I was before; just real sore where freakin' Doctor Crippen carved me up."

Sam rolled his eyes again; "yeah, he's all slashed up real bad, Bobby, it was complete and utter butchery; must be, ooh, two inches long." He turned to grin at his sulking brother, then turned back to look at the older man; "Y'ok Bobby? You look beat."

"Bin doin' some research;" Bobby's heavy, reddened eyes and slumped shoulders were plain for all to see. It was the demeanour of a man who hadn't slept all night.

"So I see." Sam smiled.

"I've bin takin' a look into spider lore, and I came up with something interesting;" Bobby began, dropping heavily into the seat beside the bed. "What did you say the old lady's name was?" he looked up at Sam as he spoke.

Sam thought hard; he hadn't remembered too much of the conversation with the mysterious old lady; being out of your mind with grief-stricken fear will do that for you.

Eventually, he spoke; "she said she was their grandmother."

Bobby seemed to ponder for a moment before looking back up at Sam; "whose grandmother?"

Shaking his head, Sam looked across at Dean who shrugged. "She looked like a native Indian; so I guess she was talkin' about her tribe or something'."

"Did she have a name?"

He looked at Sam then across at Dean.

"Dunno;" Dean sighed, "I was too busy concentrating on the fact my guts were on fire. Don' remember much after throwin' up over that sonofabitch sherriff's boots."

Sam gestured with his hand to silence him, and a spark of memory lit in his mind; "yeah," he replied hesitantly, "yeah, she did say her name, something beginning with S … supper? … submarine? … shuffle? …"

"Subbeka'she?" Bobby suggested.

Sam's eyes widened; "That's it!; Subbeka'she; that's what she said; I'm sure of it!"

Dean's brow furrowed; "sub-a-what?"

"Subbeka'she;" Sam repeated.

Bobby nodded. "Well, it would fit; the spider is the totem of the subbeka'she Indians who originated centuries ago," he explained.

"They hold spiders sacred, their ancient legends say that the founders of their tribe were spun from spider silk."

Ice blue, soft green, and liquid hazel regarded him unblinking as he continued the story.

"They refer to the spider as the grandmother of their tribe; and their lore says that she spun the web of time, and that she is still spinning it, constantly winding outward and outward as time goes on. They say that she can move across that web, back and forth, moving through time, so she can always be there to protect her family until the end of time."

Sam squinted, pinching his furrowed brows; "But …"

"'Course, nothing's ever been proved;" Bobby added, "but there are ancient cave paintings and wood carvings within the tribe that point to a knowledge of the future; stuff that looks like rocket ships and twentieth century buildings."

Dean tried to rationalise what he was hearing; "So she …"

"She was a spider," Sam interjected; "she was a spider and she turned into this old lady."

"What you met wasn't a woman." Bobby concluded; " she was a benign spirit; the spirit totem of her tribe."

Sam looked down at his brother who was still trying to process what he was hearing. "So … that butt-fugly creepy-crawly thing we kept seeing … that's what saved us?"

"Looks like you two got yourself a guardian angel;" smiled Bobby.

Dean glanced up at the angel standing over him; "looks like you got yourself some competition;" he teased.

"But, Bobby, I don't get it;" asked Sam, a thoughtful look on his face; "why would she help us? We're not her people."

Bobby shrugged. "Sorry son, that's where I run out of ideas." he flopped back against the chair.

Xxxxx

The Winchesters' guests left after a few hours, leaving the brothers to a peaceful evening.

In between increasingly brief waking periods during which Dean snarked and complained; demanding coffee, chocolate and anything remotely alcoholic, and frustrated Sam by examining, prodding and scratching his sore spot; he drowsed peacefully, leaving Sam quietly watching over him in his restful, healing sleep as he pondered what Bobby had told them.

Sam had no idea what had gone on back there in that jail cell, but one thing he did know.

He'd make damn sure he never stomped on a spider again.

Xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

WAY OUT WEST

Chapter 9

The brothers begin to recover after their ordeal and discover a long buried family secret.

xxxxx

The early evening sun filtered through the grimy windows around Bobby's house as Sam wandered wearily but happily into the lounge munching on a slice of toast and honey.

He wore his relief like a comfortable old shirt; finally discharged from hospital, Dean was well on the way to recovery. A little colour was returning to his cheeks, brightening his queasily grey countenance. He was improving every day in spirit, attitude and (unfortunately) volume.

Right now, having spent a long and fruitful day resting on the couch tormenting his brother for want of anything more constructive to do, Dean had finally drifted into a deep sleep. Curled up on the couch, he lay almost buried in a blanket Sam had placed over him, face pressed into a pillow, soft snuffling snores melting into the white cotton.

Sam smiled, the peaceful sight almost making him forget the nagging pain of his broken hand; worry over his brother's desperate condition had proved a powerful anaesthetic for him, and it was only in recent days that he had really began to feel the damage he had done to himself.

It was then he noticed the other figure in the room.

Castiel sat in a faded armchair opposite the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he was staring intently at the sleeping man.

"Hey Cas, what you doin'?" Sam asked curiously, licking the last morsels of honey off of his fingers.

"I am watching him sleep," replied the angel as if it were the most normal thing in the world, without taking his unblinking blue eyes from the horizontal figure opposite him.

"Uh, I can see that," responded Sam hesitantly; "why?"

"I am sharing his dreams."

Sam stared at the mesmerised angel. "Sharing his dreams? Why?"

"I am healing swiftly," Castiel glanced up to smile briefly at Sam; "As my powers return I can feel his thoughts - or his dreams." Castiel looked both joyful and fascinated at the same time; "he is happy."

Sam's head swivelled between angel and brother; "uh Cas; is that right? You know, should you really be rootin' around in his dreams?" He scratched his head, "isn't that kinda private?"

"I can gauge my recovery by how vivid the images are, soon I will be strong enough to rejoin the battle in Heaven. " Castiel explained with a smile; "I can see his dream very clearly; he is dreaming of the Impala, the sun is shining and you are with him."

Sam's face softened from curious concern to a warm smile as saw the sheer contentment on Dean's face as he dreamed about his baby and his brother. Dean huffed out a long sigh and wrinkled his nose, shifting in his sleep with a soft grunt; "it's windows are open and the music is loud," Castiel continued.

Sam sat down next to the angel, feeling slightly guilty at hearing the intimate details of his brother's dreams. However, he couldn't hide his joy that they were pleasant after Dean's recent ordeal.

Castiel canted his head, pursing his lips as his brow furrowed in thought. "Now it is different," he hesitated, glancing at Sam; "There is a bed covered in black silk, and there is a girl. She is removing her clo …"

"Uh, okay, I get the picture;" Sam leapt to his feet, and covered his ears, glancing in wide eyed panic from the angel to his brother, as a slowly broadening smirk crept across the sleeping man's face.

Sam composed himself and glanced down at Castiel; "you know it would freak Dean out if he knew we were here watching him sleep?"

Dean cracked open an eye, "yeah, an' I'm gonna kick both your asses when I can bend in the middle."

xxxxx

The three figures looked up on hearing the door creak open to see Bobby stumbling through, laden down with library books.

"Hey Bobby," Sam stood up smartly, offering to help Bobby with the books, then thought better of it as his injured hand protested at the movement.

"Hey Sam, Cas … aah, Princess Fairycakes; so nice to see you finally awake," Bobby smiled.

"Hey leave me alone," Dean pouted gruffly, rocking awkwardly as he tried to sit up; "You should be nice to me. I've been suffering in pain," he groaned theatrically, "an' I've been under the knife; I was sliced open and gutted." He made a point of grimacing and rubbing his stomach to reinforce the point.

Sam rolled his eyes, and gestured something tiny between his thumb and forefinger; "two inches dude; two inches," he grinned at his sulking brother.

"Where you been all day, Bobby?" asked Dean, making a point of ignoring Sam.

"I bin down the library doin' some research, trying to find out why your little eight legged friend decided to help you," Bobby replied, dropping down into a seat at the table.

"What did you find?" asked Sam, slowly walking towards Bobby and his book.

"A great big pile of nothing with a side of squat," sighed Bobby, taking off his cap and mopping his brow with a grubby handkerchief.

The brothers sighed.

"But," Bobby dragged a big, sorry looking tome onto the table, "I did find this; a 'Complete History of Wyoming'."

Dean leaned forward to see round his brother's broad back, stifling a groan as the movement pinched his wound.

Bobby leafed through the book; then sat back in his chair leaving the book open at a page showing an ink portrait of a coldly familiar man. "This your friend, Walton?"

Sam leaned over and stared intently at the picture.

"That's him," he nodded, turning to show the picture to Dean.

"Yep, that's him, the sour douchebag," Dean indicated his agreement.

Sam read the caption that accompanied the picture; "Obadiah Walton - Sherriff of Possum Creek 1854 – 1861. Born 3rd February 1804; died 9th March …" Sam's voice tailed off; he looked up at Bobby and across at Dean who, having now worked himself upright, stood staring at him wide-eyed.

…died 9th March 1861," Sam whispered. "The day we were rescued."

Bobby nodded again; "carry on readin' son."

Sam continued to scan the page; and visibly paled; "died of …" he looked up at Dean, "... venomous spider bite."

Putting the book down, he stared at his stunned brother.

"That's why he was so quiet," Sam spoke to himself trying to rationalise the situation, "when it was real bad, when I thought it was the end of the road. There was no sign or sound of him."

He turned back to Bobby.

"I thought he'd gone out and left us, but he was already dead. She killed him before she rescued us."

Bobby smiled, "So not only did she rescue you, she made sure your persecutor got his just desserts."

Dean huffed, rubbing the back of his neck; "that's one seriously impressive creepy-crawly;" he looked at the assembled figures around the room, "friggin' glad she's on our side."

xxxxx

Awakening slowly the following morning, Sam tiptoed past the unmoving lump under the blankets in the other bed; he paused briefly to satisfy himself that all was well. The only visible signs of life were a tousled knot of dark blond hair sticking out of one end of the bedclothes and a bare foot hanging off the other end of the bed.

The blanket swelled around a long sigh and Sam smiled, reassured that all was well. He turned to walk out of the room and heard a muffled voice behind him.

"Make the coffee, bitch."

xxxxx

Dean wandered uncomfortably into the kitchen clutching his sore belly, scratching his head and stifling a yawn all at the same time. He stopped, mid yawn, when Sam dashed out from the lounge, and grabbed him by the hand.

"Dude, you need to see this."

Still not quite awake, and in dire need of caffeine, Dean followed his agitated brother into the other room where Bobby and Castiel both stood side by side silently and intently studying the wall.

Dean joined them, peering at the wall between the two men's shoulders and immediately saw the source of their fascination. A big spider slowly working it's way along the junction between the ceiling and the wall.

"That looks like …" Dean began.

Sam nodded.

"What's it doing?" Bobby asked, without taking his eyes off the wall. All four stood and watched as the spider changed tack and scuttled down the wall, coming to rest on the top of a picture frame.

The picture was one of Bobby's favourites; a battered wooden frame containing a faded photograph of a rare moment of leisure. Featuring a much younger Bobby with his arms across the shoulders of a shy, timid looking ten-year-old, standing together with his old friend John Winchester, the picture was completed by a grinning, gap toothed six year old. All four figures stood in front of a tumbling creek clutching fishing rods.

The spider scuttled along the top of the picture frame then stopped halfway across.

Watched by the three fascinated men and one fascinated angel it clambered over the top edge of the frame, clinging to the glass, and stopped; it's front legs resting on John Winchester's forehead.

"What's it doing?" Sam whispered to no-one in particular.

There was a long pause which was eventually broken by a loud gasp.

xxxxx

"Holy crap," Bobby turned, wide-eyed, to the brothers.

"She said she wanted to help her family?"

"yeah," came the response.

"What if you were her family?"

Dean shrugged, "but we're not - we ain't indian - d'y see us wearin' feathers and dancing' roun' a totem pole?" He looked at the older man as if he'd gone mad.

Giving a long sigh, Bobby tried a different approach; "you know everything about ya momma's family, but how much do ya know about ya daddy's family?"

Sam looked at his brother, then back to the older man; "not a lot Bobby, He never spoke about them much, but I know he wasn't native American."

Bobby continued, "he wasn't, nor were his parents; but what if it was in the blood somewhere; somewhere back from before 1861?"

They fell silent, watching the spider as it scuttled back up along the wall and disappeared into a crack in the masonry, seemingly happy that it had made it's point.

The brothers looked at each other in silent disbelief.

"Remember" Bobby continued, "we're talking seven or eight generations back. Those were hard times, people weren't as broad minded or as tolerant as they are now.'

He looked at the brothers.

"I'm guessing, the child of such a pairing might well have been rejected by both societies; perhaps it ended up raised in some mission or orphanage or something like that but whatever happened, doubtless they wouldn't have wanted to advertise their origins - if they ever even knew about them."

He hesitated; "I'm guessin' ya daddy wouldn't have even known."

He looked at the brothers with a smile.

"… and here she is, a hundred and fifty years on still looking after her boys."

xxxxx

The brothers stood staring at the picture for the longest time; eventually it was Dean that broke the silence. Slapping Sam on the back he grinned, "well then Kimosabe, there's a nice research job to keep you busy while I'm out of action."

"What?" Sam's brow furrowed in confusion.

"You can look back an' see if you can find our Uncle Hiawatha."

Bobby shook his head with a smile, and walked back toward the kitchen, dragging the smiling angel with him.

"An' what are you gonna do while I'm huntin' out our family history?" asked Sam, folding his arms irritably across his chest.

Dean gripped his sore belly and settled down on the couch with a wince, pulling the blanket up over his knees.

Glancing up as his brother loomed over him he grinned; "I'm gonna wait for the coffee that Bobby's gonna make me ..."

He flicked the remote and the theme tune to Bonanza blared across the room.

"… an' then I'm gonna do my own research an go' back to my roots!"

xxxxx

end

_To Brightshadow-Chi ... thank you for the idea, I hope you enjoyed the tale, my friend :)_


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